Him
by Wildfire10
Summary: Learn about the story behind Trap, my interpretation of Springtrap. Springtrap is filled with pain and agony, and he will be plagued with strife for the rest of his existence. How will he come to grips with what he has become? Check out more about Trap, at . This story is being refined, presently. Newest rewritten portion is Night One.
1. Night One

_Night One_

There were harsh, static whines filling the air as the lights flickered on, bathing the facility in sickly light. It was motionless inside of the horror attraction. The halls were devoid of life, but covered in posters and lined with objects recovered from those outdated and abandoned restaurants. The collection had grown over the many years since they had closed down, and now there was this wretched place. It had only been put together very recently. It hadn't even opened yet, but already there was some eerie sense to it.

The few employees could feel it, creeping along their spines each time they came in. Not all of them liked to think about it or even take it seriously, but those who did described it as an acute feeling of _wrong_. It was as if being there, in itself, was against nature. In full honesty, they would also admit, the fact that the ventilation system didn't work without help added to the sensation. They would have to worry about whether or not they would be able to keep their breath in their lungs while that heavy feeling in their chest expanded.

If they were asked when it had started, they would answer that it had grown apparent when they brought in _him_. A strange, jaded creature with faded silver eyes that must have once glowed from electricity. The animatronic suit he wore resembled a rabbit, with an eternal grin curling along its face. He had jagged tears covering him, gaping and wide and exposing wires and textures that looked strangely like decayed human flesh. "All the better for the attraction!" the manager would say, but those who had to be around this thing felt something deep within. He unsettled them in ways they had never felt.

He had been lain against the wall, but he'd slowly fallen over, onto his shoulder. They hadn't bothered to fix him, yet, figuring that they would do so when the horror attraction was ready to lift off the ground. For the longest time, he had been silent and dead. Years had passed him by, and he had hardly taken any notice to them. Every once in a while, he would see again, but his eye would still appear lifeless; he merely lacked the care to get up and act, and thus remained a dead man. He had been passed around from one place to another, occasionally awakening to find himself somewhere new, but never once did he find the desire to move.

Pain. There was so much pain inside of him. He remembered it all with such poignancy. One minute, he had been in the midst of victory; another, filled with fear; and then he was crushed and decimated by one of the very things he had created. He shouldn't be alive, if this could even be called life. Each movement, each twitch, was an effort, now. He was forcing his muscles against the spring coils, further tearing the flesh and sinew by the strain. He would wither faster if he moved too much, and the fear of the spring coils splitting right through him and destroying his spine was too vivid to bear.

And yet.

In spite of this, he found himself more awake now than ever before. He was surrounded by scenery that had travelled full circle. The clock had struck midnight, and his eye moved. It lighted upon the door leading out of the room. He was in some place small, now that he was looking at it. Boxes and clutter were clustered around him, wires hanging limply from the ceiling overhead. His diaphragm began to move as if his crushed lungs might be able to take in a breath, but of course nothing happened. Pain sliced through his body, reminding him of why he had remained for so long, but a new restlessness started to invigorate his soul. A desire to get up and do something began manifesting itself within him. He had played dead for long enough. It was time to see what sense he could make of his new life.

His horrible wheezes took up the sounds of the storage room. There were no lights in here, not yet, but there was a small hole in the door, filtering in some of the light from the hall. Not that he needed it. He could see exceptionally well in the dark. In fact, brighter lights harmed his eyes, he had found in those snippets of time in which he roused. This environment was perfect for his awakening! It was dark, dusty, and generally everything the humans wouldn't like. That meant fewer prying eyes upon him, and less attention to where he was. There were also no cameras, a fact he quickly noticed with a brief survey of the place. He was all to himself.

He looked down at himself with a slow, measured tip of his chin, afraid of moving too quickly. He could see his hands at his sides, and as he slowly twitched his fingers, he felt the familiar shaking in his limbs. He was unstable from the mental and physical stress. Getting up was going to be no small feat... He put his hands down on the ground, planting them and forcing power into them. He applied pressure to the surface of the floor and began pulling himself up, sliding his left leg under himself. It forced a grimace from him, for that knee had been in an accident in life that had left him dreamless.

Convincing himself that there was purpose in his actions, he mustered up the courage to pull his other leg up and attempt to stand. He gasped as it crumpled under his weight, and a moment of black later he found himself lying on the floor in a heap. It was still nighttime. He grew incredibly weary in the daylight, and he saw no sign of this. He hoped he hadn't been out for the hour, but there was no way of identifying. Time was meaningless to him, trapped in here with no sense of it. He didn't even have impending doom to give him a sense of time; his fate had already fallen upon him. He simply had to embrace it or stay in the back of a storage room for the rest of his eternity.

The spring coils whined and snapped as he dragged himself against the wall with his arms. Touching his head to it, he wheezed quietly for a moment. _Come on… You can do this. You_ have _to,_ he told himself silently, a wretched gasping noise coming from his throat as he prepared for the effort again. He curled his fingers, pressing his knuckles into the crusting tile, and made a second attempt. He moved his arm back, quickly, holding it against the wall and using it to help him reach his feet. His body shuddered and fear bubbled in his chest, wondering if he might collapse again.

He straightened gradually, staring down at his feet before raising his gaze to sweep it across the room. He was standing. He was actually _standing_! Triumph washed over him and he raised his head, unable to help but puff out his chest, even if only a bit, in pride at what he had done. It didn't last. He, in his glorified mindset, attempted a step with the wrong foot, only to start tumbling forward. Desperately, he reached out with his arms, snatching hold of one of the nearby boxes and clinging to it. A wail forced itself from him, the pain returning like the sharpness of a knife, trailing along his spine. He struggled to wheeze as if he needed the air, pulling on the box to try to straighten before he snapped in two.

At last, the jaws of agony sinking into his back faded slowly, and he leveled himself, staring at his hands. He was so weak… Something moved in the edge of his vision and he turned his head, sighting a reflection of himself in a mirror. He jerked his gaze away, the glimpse he'd caught horrifying him. What had he become? Why was he alive? Questions started pouring back into his mind. He had gone over them a million times while he came in and out of consciousness. Now that he was more awake, he wondered if that was part of the reason that he had chosen to get up, now. He felt like he was teetering on some thin line, tempting the edge like it was a curious thing.

He wasn't going insane. No, that wasn't it. He was merely trapped, he told himself. Stuck among the spring coils and the wires and the pain. He was something new; he wasn't the man he had once been. He was even more restless and alone, his spirit stuck within an intense turmoil it had never experienced. He needed something new to identify himself as. He needed to be able to recognize himself with a new light.

He staggered back to the wall to lean against it, slowly lowering his head and peering through the crack in the door. The dim light outside turned on and off, occasionally bathing the world around it in darkness. It only looked slightly less destitute and sickly than the room he was presently in. He fiddled with the door handle, but it didn't budge. His fingers tightened on it. Yet another cage. He was trapped again, and only further did the spring coils bear down on his body.

There it was. The name was right within his grasp, and he snatched it before it could leave. _Springtrap_. Yes, that was perfect. He would abandon the man he had been. Resolve slowly firmed in his chest, forming steel out of what remained of his heart. He was Springtrap, now, and if he was to find a reason for life, he would need to make one. He was about to get busy.


	2. Night Two

**Springtrap - Part II**

A strange murmur of fury escaped him when the night guard's hand tapped the audio, not far off. The suit lurched, forcing him to move toward it, and impatience flooded Springtrap. The less excited feelings caused him to pause, momentarily blinded by the pain that spiked from a moving leg up to the rest of his body. He almost let out a sound, but stifled it, his eyes locking on the recording camera, growing completely still. He was bathed in shadow, but his silver eyes allowed for him to be identified. You won't survive long, fool, he thought as he glared up at the eye, opening the mouth of the suit somewhat in the will to gnash his teeth upon the night guard's head.

What is his name? For some reason, that specific question entered Springtrap's mind. What was the name of the night guard? Did he have a family? Feelings of pain, sorrow, and fury overwhelmed him, and he clenched his fists, focusing on the emotions to force himself through the brunt of the agony he constantly felt. He limped to the next room, just wanting to get his hands on the man hiding in the back room and rip him to shreds. He vaguely remembered the others who had found him, only a day before. They had infuriated him, calling him an old animatronic with excited, high-pitched voices and eager expressions. How had they not realized that he had a person constricted within himself, that the same person had a spirit that possessed the combined body of suit and human?

He had always been amused by the carelessness of the employees of Freddy Fazbear's, but he couldn't hold the same feelings again. No amusement came to him but to see another screaming in agony. Another to join him in this place that had now become his world. He was just so terribly lonely, and he thirsted for vengeance. Only dark feelings came to pass, now, and as he clambered through a vent, he recalled the time he had taken at the Horror Attraction. Nothing else before that seemed real. He remembered the terror-stricken faces of the children, but, somehow, it felt like a dream. Maybe it was. Springtrap's trembling hand touched a block before his face, and the lids of the suit's eyes lowered somewhat sadly as he pawed at it, wishing that he could break it open, but the rest of the vent to the night guard's room was inaccessible. He would have to find another way, as always.

Springtrap turned back around, returning to the room where he had entered the vent, earlier. He struggled with one leg more than the other; the same one that had spiked with pain, before, as he had walked. It was trying to refuse him, but he was determined not to let the animatronic rule his movements. Funny that he felt such vigor to refuse it, when he knew that whenever Balloon Boy's voice sounded, he would head toward it due to the glitch in the animatronic's systems that moved it to follow the loudest sounds. He shook that off, however, and kept moving, using whatever will he had to keep up with himself. He snatched hold of a corner and used it to help him propel forward, keeping close to the wall. Another camera. He stopped, inclining his head and glaring at it again. "I'm coming for you," he breathed, but the words were likely unintelligible to the night guard. He could hardly understand them, himself. "I will find you."

The sound of Balloon Boy met him, and he lurched forward, following it, not taking his time. He was growing frustrated by his failure at having reached the night guard yet, and he didn't want to hesitate any longer. He could see the red of the exit sign down the hall, and he could hear the faint breathing of the night guard in the room to the left. He entered the arcade room, but he was quick to exit again after a brief pause inside with a minor suit malfunction. He limped at a faster rate, slowing at the corner and easing around to glare at the night guard, his ever-sustained grin of the suit showing brightly and his hand wrapped around the frame of the door.

The night guard's eyes widened in fear and horror, and he stared back at him, not sure what to do. His security cap hid most of his hair, and the rest of it was hard to identify the color of under the greenish lighting. His eyes were round and dark, and he trembled. A flicker of satisfaction passed through Springtrap as he heard the night guard begin to ramble under his breath in attempt to calm down and be ready for his movements. "It's over," Springtrap whispered, not caring that the night guard wouldn't understand. However, suddenly, the sound of a clock chiming caught his ears. "No!" Six a.m. had arrived: The night guard could leave without Springtrap being able to harm him. He could only stare helplessly as the night guard rushed past, swinging open the exit door and slamming it shut behind him, vanishing into the dawning sky. Even though it was only a half-light, it seemed blinding to Springtrap, and he reeled at the sight of it. He turned his head away, placing a hand on what he considered to be his forehead, as if it would help the ache that appeared in his skull.

He was gone. The night guard was gone. Springtrap's frustration at the failure could not keep him from hurting as he made his way back toward the first room that he began in. He could feel every step constricting him. The spring-locked suit never stopped. When he arrived at the back room he let himself sit, growing idle. If he didn't move, he would not hurt. He stared at the far wall, as he always did, exhaustion pricking at him as his mind told him that he should be sleeping, but it was impossible. "Another night… only three more…" he choked out, his fingers clenching at the effort it took to speak another garbled word.

The agony of loneliness and guilt had returned.

 _Also located on my DeviantArt picture: [FNAF] Springtrap by XxWildLostSpiritsxX_


	3. Night Three

**Springtrap - Part III**

"Leave me alone," he whispered in his rickety, strange fashion. Hands probed at what he considered to be his face, his hands. "Leave me alone," he repeated, but he found himself unwilling to shake them off. He was half-blind, only able to detect shining white light and dark, gloomy silhouettes towering over the manifestation that he was. "Leave me alone!" he cried, finally breaking the chains of his immobility, and pushing his hands toward the silhouettes. Then, he realized, they had vanished. Dead silence met him in the dark, the greenish light disturbed by the flickering of cheap lightbulbs. Once again, he was alone, and he couldn't recall if what he had seen had been reality or merely a product of the subconscious. His shoulders began to tremble, but pain had not arrived with the half-voluntary movements. Relief swept through him at the realization, and the suit blinked a few times as he tried to register the breaths of the night guard.

Nothing: The night guard couldn't be present then, could he? Springtrap didn't budge, letting the suit close its eyes. He stared at the lids blankly, feeling numb. He didn't want to process all the things that had met his senses. Everything felt fuzzy and surreal, but he surely couldn't be dying. His condemnation prevented that. No, this was something else. He had the small consideration of pondering this for hours on end, but the longing to search his emotions faded and he let the feeling caress him. It was mildly comforting to leave thoughts behind and almost enjoy the solitude.

Sadly, it didn't last long, and he felt a desperation to retrieve it when the distant, unseen entry door closed and locked shut. It was midnight—too soon—it seemed. He let himself dwell in his dark corner for a rather short time, then forced himself to emerge. Pain travelled up his spine, blinding him, and he shook more fervently. When the moment ended, he began to move. He forced himself to focus only on the possibility of a kill. The thought of squeezing the life out of the night guard so he could have company, here in this place, excited him, and adrenaline pushed him onward, allowing him to have a purpose. It was something to rely on, providing whatever stability he could muster in the terrible Horror Attraction.

Springtrap's limp was persisting, and, though he normally paid little to no attention to it, this night it bothered him. If he focused on it more carefully, he would sense the lack of muscle capacity. The leg would flex at the knee, stretching out to a certain extent before tightening at his calf, preventing a full range of motion. It had been crushed and punctured more terribly than the other, but it was, strangely, functional. Of course, this fact wasn't much different from the others; he was alive, which was abnormal enough. This kept him from being able to move as efficiently. This night, his laborious efforts slowly began to become more and more apparent to him. _It is worth it,_ he thought to himself, _it will help me if there is another at my side._

The echo of a hello came from a further room, and he turned, heading toward it. He knew where the night guard was situated. This place was crumbling; frequently, red lights would flash and the night guard would yelp in terror, which meant the ventilation would go out and he would envision something horrible. Springtrap did not feel the slightest bit of pity for him. If the night guard had to reboot ventilation, then it gave Springtrap more time to approach before a hello was called and the suit made him maneuver toward it. He knew he was getting closer, and the night guard knew, too, but it didn't seem fast enough. Time went by so swiftly for Springtrap… what if half of the night had already gone by? Tonight was the third night, and that meant there were only two more chances for him to kill the night guard after this one. Would it be enough time?

He suddenly remembered the silhouettes of before, and once again began to wonder if they had been real. Most certainly not, or they would have noticed the decaying body that had been existent inside the suit for a number of ears that even Springtrap had lost track of. Maybe they had decided it would be best to leave it there, to help remind of what had happened at those restaurants with the children stuffed inside the animatronics. That had happened, hadn't it? He gave a gentle shake of his head that would have brought tears to his eyes if his tear ducts were still intact. Instead, he tensed up irregularly, his head jerking spastically. It ended in a few moments, but the jarring sensation had a lasting effect. He paused, staring at the camera adjacent to him, to give himself enough time to rejuvenate.

Another hello, and he was off again. When the night guard comes by, he can't refuse movement, both physically and mentally. After years of stillness, the thirty hours the night guard spent at the attraction reminded him of what it had been like to be an average human. It was all he needed to start. The exit sign… there it was! Springtrap passed the night guard's room, arriving at the door that could have been walked through by him if he were human. He stayed by it, his chin lifted and silver eyes focused on the camer's lens. He said nothing; he made no sound. He knew the night guard was searching for him, and he could hear the movement of the shuddering, protesting chair. Red lights flared, provoking a throbbing pain to accumulate behind his eyes, as though boring into his skull. Realizing what it was, he lurched forward, peering around the bend. A mixture of fear and anger passed through him as he gripped the door frame. He had moved too late, however; the lights were gone and the night guard had glimpsed him. Shortly, more audio cued and he moved to it, the suit urging him. The night guard had, once again, averted his doom, though not for much longer, Springtrap hoped.

His eyes caught sight of something dark and metallic: a vent. Eager, he limped to it, clambered inside, but, once again, froze. He couldn't get himself to move. What did that mean? He couldn't figure it out, as the strange, surreal feeling pressed itself against his consciousness. His mind was slowed, though not much due to the numbness he had been feeling. White, watery light met him, and he saw a hand reaching eagerly for a door, to open it. It was his hand. "No," he bellowed, though it was nothing short of a gurgle. "I am Springtrap." He couldn't dare dwell on those nostalgic memories of the past. His control returned to him, but he backed out. The vent would be sealed by the night guard by now. His eyes travelled to the door out of his current room and headed out when a hello sounded.

Why could he not dwell on the memories? The reason was simple: He would only increase his suffering tenfold. If he considered whatever had occurred, he would force himself to a more realistic standpoint. It would lose him, and then what semblance of a mind he had kept for all these years would be shattered. His fingers slowly clenched, the pain of it a dull, feathery touch at the back of his awareness. The suit's eyelids lowered somewhat as he stepped out of the room, toward the night guard's location of "safety". A soft gasp escaped him as he moved to the window, pressing his hands against the transparent glass. He glared at the night guard, who quickly initiated a hello, and moved toward the exit, into the next hall. He was starting to feel like himself again, though his mind wasn't running a mile a minute, like usual. Instead, he focused on physical things rather than pressing his normal behavior upon himself. He figured it was a phase.

He lurked around the area of the office but never managed to enter to murder. He desperately struggled to get closer, anxious, as he could tell how close his time was to running out. His suit's ears twitched somewhat apprehensively, and he circled continuously around until the clock chimed. When it did, he strode after the night guard, who smirked at him, but Springtrap could see the sliver of fear in his eyes, which were wider than they should be for the look he was trying to achieve. The night guard turned his back on Springtrap as the corpse stopped, closing his eyes as the night guard left so that he would not have to experience the bright light of the outdoors. He turned his back on it, his smile maintaining itself in his face as always, and he limped toward the back room. With his mind on physicality, his limp was more apparent and heavy. Perhaps it was better to let his mind run quickly.

Maybe the consideration of what vengeance would taste like was the only thing that would ever keep him going. What if killing the night guard did not end up as sweet as he hoped? Springtrap's thoughts were returning to him when he came to a slow stop in the dark corner where he normally sat, staring at the far wall. He hoped that the strangers would not pry at his mangled body again. He knew now that daytime made him unresponsive. The darkness was his ultimate ally. It was what let him be himself more than anything else. How many times did he have to convince himself he was no longer the man of before? How many more times would he have to tell himself that he is Springtrap?

That was the real question, wasn't it?

 _Also posted on my DA drawing: [FNAF] I Lock Myself in My Room by XxWildLostSpiritsxX_


	4. Night Four

**Springtrap - Part IV**

Pale light. Stone-gray walls. A wooden chair garnished with shackles and clamps. A helmet contraption extending from the top, a long cord keeping it filled with energy. The electric chair. It filled him with fear just at the sight of it. His body trembled uncontrollably, every extinct screaming at him to run; to survive. He couldn't. He felt rooted to the spot, as if his feet were already chained to the ground. Tears –yes, real tears!- sprang from his eyes and spilled onto his cheeks. He felt a rough sense of anger, snapping at himself in rebuke for the crying. He was not a child! Still, he turned his eyes away, his emotions overwhelming him. The reasons for the punishment were supposed to be obvious, but they eluded him like grains in the sand. He didn't understand why, but every single time he pushed to remember, it grew fuzzy, and his vision blurred.

Then he noticed the difference in himself. He didn't feel as though he was succumbing to a constant pressure; he felt free and alive. He closed his eyes, the fears leaving him as he began to feel comfort in his fluid motions and lack of pain. He turned and began to walk away from the electric chair, finally able to move. He would not let it take him, any longer. Then came the fear of going back. Back to the suit and the framework pressing against his bones and stabbing into his flesh, forcing a shock of pain to pass through him every time he made a twitch. He shook his head and looked down at his hands, gazing at the soft self he had been. He wore a purple shirt with a security badge pinned against his chest. Dark pants contrasted to the lighter color, and his black shoes matched them. Pleasure at seeing his former self passed through him, but his dream world reverted to nightmare as he felt panic close his throat in the dark room he had just entered.

He stared in horror at the pale silhouettes that stared at them, their white eyes gleaming. He recognized each and every one of them, and he took a step back, ready to bolt, but pain slashed its way up through his leg. He looked down at himself, a shiver passing through him when he saw his leg had been turned into that of the suit. He blinked, and soon found himself within it. "No…" he whispered, hearing his own smooth voice that he missed so much. He knew what was coming next. A nervous chuckle escaped him as he stared at the spirits that were glaring down upon him. "No…" he repeated desperately, but it was no use.

The pain jerked Springtrap awake, and when he opened his eyes he found himself jerking about uncontrollably. After a few moments, he managed to get a hold of the suit and fix the error, soon returning to his original position, seated on the ground. His gasping was heavier, trying to recover from the nightmares of his fears. He closed his eyes, staring at the lids again and going completely still. He listened. Would the night guard arrive, this night? He was surprised that the human had not left when he had the chance. Then again, he recalled doing the same thing, once, a long, long time ago. The memories were still feverish and vague, but he knew that was what he had done. A yearning filled him for his old self. The nightmares had sparked it, and he struggled to flush it down. It took all too long, perhaps the entire day, to fix his mindset. He couldn't dwell on them. He couldn't long for these luxuries. This hell was his home! He needed to think that was the case, or else he would forever feel trapped!

What a fool he was! Once more, he'd be unable to shake off the nostalgic feelings completely. The last night had been like this, and he had hated it when it ended. It had kept him from killing the night guard, which was the whole goal of his being. Still, he couldn't help but thinking of how lucky he had been, back then. He had ruined it all by murdering… what he had been thinking was no longer evident to him. The many years had a wear and tear on his mind. Sometimes, the lack of memories was not just him protecting himself. Springtrap felt a compression on his chest and quickly stood, despite the harm it imposed upon him. It felt better than a collapsing of what remained of his chest. The metal beams still managed to crush him further, from time to time. He was constantly decaying, so staying still wasn't always an option; if he didn't move for too long, the pressure could become too much and tear him up further. Still, there was a lingering wonder as to whether or not it would be better.

Springtrap couldn't afford to take the risk. This was his own self; he was concerned about possibly hurting himself even further than the initial damage. Thinking of that, his mind wandered as to whether or not he'd let it happen to a companion. If he managed to bring down the night guard and pull his spirit into a suit, as his had been, would he allow his companion to take the fall? Maybe. He couldn't be certain without a legitimate accompaniment. Just seeing the night guard wasn't enough. Would the night guard even want to communicate with him? He didn't seem eager at the moment, but maybe, when the terror was gone and he was on the same level, he would become too desperate than to avoid it. This risk Springtrap could take. It could be detrimental in its own way, but he was determined. It kept him going, and that was all that mattered. A feeling of purpose was rejuvenating him each night.

It was the fourth night, tonight. Only one more night before this night guard was released, after this one. Springtrap was quickly running out of chances to kill him, and it made him nervous. He heard the sound of a door opening and closing and knew instantly that the night guard was heading for his swivel seat, preparing for the six hours that he would be kept cooped up in that small room. Springtrap felt a release as midnight passed over him and he stood for a moment, letting himself stay where he was. After a little while, he made his way out of the room, distracted by a hello. Still, he was making progress, as usual. His physicality was no longer his main focus, he noticed. The limp didn't bother him so much, and the pain was merely a dull, understated ache.

Springtrap began to wonder about the spirits. They had been set free, hadn't they? But sometimes he felt as though they still roamed the halls, lurking among the frightening heads and arcades of the contraptions they had been concealed in. As he moved throughout the Horror Attraction, he considered whether or not they were still existent in this world. What about the Marionette? Was it still around? He shuddered when he thought of it. It was the first child to die, not even by his own hand, but it had wanted vengeance. Vengeance for things that made Springtrap want to break down and weep. Quickly, he turned his thoughts away from the Marionette, but he felt a lurking presence over his shoulder. Twisting around shot a short spasm through him, but it ended up being completely useless; there was nothing there. Torn between relief and irritation, Springtrap continued to limp onward laboriously, his eyes focusing on the path ahead.

Another hello caught him, and he turned around and walked to the previous room. He waited there, staring up at the camera, and heard another sound in the room before his. He entered it and stared in shock at the glimpse of a shadow as it appeared and dissipated again. He stood there, turning his head slowly from left to right, divine curiosity filling every fiber of his being. What had it been? He turned his back on it, but he was determined to keep his eye out for the shadows that were trying to reach out to him. Maybe he did have company, after all. He began a slow and painful trek toward the night guard's location, struggling to push past the hellos and lurk this way and that. The exit sign beamed at him, but he didn't let his hopes soar. He had been to this area many times with failures haunting his heart, or what remained of it. In fact, he always seemed to fail. The night guard was just too quick. He shook off the pessimism, a passionate flame rekindling in his spirit as he slowly approached, biding his time. Something touched his spine, and he whipped around, only to find: Nothing. Again.

He hesitated, not sure what he was supposed to do with himself. Should he go looking for the shadowy spirit, or continue on his quest to kill the night guard? The shadowy spirit could wait. The night guard was his true objective, and he wouldn't be around for much longer. Shifting his gears, Springtrap resumed his search for the night guard, once more pleasuring in the idea of stuffing him into a suit so that he would finally have the company he longed for. "Leave me alone," he whispered for what seemed like the trillionth time when another shadowy touch became apparent to his shoulder. "I will kill him and see you, later." He continued his travel, focusing, his eyes trained on the path ahead.

The sound of wind came into Springtrap's hearing when he stood in the arcade room. Wind? That couldn't be right; wind wasn't around in the stuffy complex! He looked around himself, whipping to and fro, a prickle of cold fear travelling up his spine. He felt as though he was being watched, and not in the same way as whenever the cameras recorded his moves. No, this feeling was terrifying and dark, and it plagued his mind and soul. Finally, his eyes landed on a dark shape. "Hello?" he rasped, though, once again, it lacked intelligibility. He made a slow step toward it on his good leg, though, just like in his dream, every part of him told him he should leave immediately, the eyelids of the suit wheeled back, making his eyes wide.

The figure turned around, taking its time, and, in horror, Springtrap recognized the painted, smiling face of the Marionette. "You…" he rasped, backing away again and stumbling into an arcade game. He almost fell, barely managing to catch himself on the edges, hardly taking notice of the Foxy head that was staring at him, painted on the sides and front of the machine. The Marionette made no comment, merely gazed at him with that placid, emotionless look on its face. It was meant to look cheerful, but, with dark lines running across its face from its time at the Horror Attraction, Springtrap found himself deeply disturbed. His past with this puppet was nothing but awful, and so he was momentarily silent, terrified by the appearance of another spirit. He righted himself, his jaws gaping in the shock of seeing him. Springtrap whispered, "Why are we here? Why are we both trapped?"

The Marionette's silence frustrated him. "Why don't you let me free?" Springtrap roared, though it came out as a strange, mechanical scree. Springtrap advanced on him, clenching his hand into a fist, his eyes narrowing with his anger. "Let me leave this place! I don't belong here!" The Marionette's long tendrils of fingers curled on one hand before lifting upward, his elbow bending. He turned his head slightly as though looking at it, but Springtrap couldn't identify whether or not he was actually scanning his strange hand. Springtrap stared at him, his eternal grin masking the emotional torment he was facing. His anger plummeted into grief, and his eyes travelled down to the ground. "You don't belong here, either," he gurgled, turning away. The words sounded so smooth and perfect in his mind, unrivaled by the voice he possessed now. He felt a shadowy presence at his back, a warm glow, before it disappeared. Whether or not the Marionette had left, Springtrap could not be certain.

All he knew was that it had devastated him to even catch a glimpse of the Marionette.

Time was passing by. He was running out of it the longer he spent in this room. Slowly, he managed to force himself to make his way through the building, back toward the laughing exit sign. The process was even more excruciatingly slow, now that the Marionette had gone from his presence. Springtrap could still feel the grief creating a hollow hole in his heart. Neither of them had deserved the torment that had drawn them to such measures. Springtrap remembered the face of the Marionette as he had once been, as a child. Suddenly, vigor filled him. He would avenge them both. Even though he had considered the Marionette as his enemy before, now he realized that the Marionette was not as he had thought. They were both trapped. They had both been imprisoned by darkness. Springtrap wasn't surprised when the night slipped away and the clock chimed six. When the night guard left, Springtrap only watched, determination to fill the hole beginning to rise with each passing moment. That night guard would die this next night!

 _Also posted on the deviation: [FNAF] Wounds by XxWildLostSpiritsxX_


	5. Night Five

**Springtrap – Part V**

Night five started out like any other night. It was dark when Springtrap awoke, as usual. He heard the door shut from the night guard's movement inside and stood, shaking himself a little bit. He ignored the rush of pain that came to pass, focusing on the kill. His new resolve made it even easier to ignore the pain, now, though he thought his exhilaration may be causing more twitchiness in the suit. Despite this, he was rapidly approaching the room of the night guard. Predatory instinct had fallen upon him, combining with all other things that energized him each night. He lived and breathed the will to murder, this night. His mind still wandered throughout all of it, however.

He was starting to admit what had really happened. The Marionette's appearance had confirmed that at least half his memory was still intact. He still remembered what that Marionette used to look like. He knew he had killed those children. It was all starting to crash down over his ears. If he didn't kill this night guard soon… He refused to think about that conclusion, at least. The memories were present of what he had once been, and he longed for those days. The longing was overpowering, and it took the bloodlust to push through it, now. He had to keep his focus on what he would do when he got his hands on that night guard. All thoughts had to lead back to that.

Each room he moved into had a camera peering at him, and he would look right back. When the audio sounded, the suit would make him move, but he was confident and he was certain. He clenched his fists, a bitter, very low laugh escaping him. It was hardly identifiable, but pleasure came with it. Being able to laugh as he had just done felt wonderful, and he laughed more as he moved from place to place. He could almost sense the nervousness of the night guard, imagine the sweat starting to build up on his face. Springtrap anticipated the hour when he would force that fool to become his companion in Fazbear's Fright! How wonderful it would be, no longer to be alone in this dastardly place!

The excitement of that also fueled him. He would've cried in his mixture of emotions if he could've. For once, the thrill of it made him full of hope… more so than before. Eagerly, he moved this way and that, listening to the sounds of alarms when the malfunctioning ventilation went out of whack. "Help me… Help," he breathed, still finding himself full of motivation to laugh. He repeated these phrases. He wanted the night guard to understand that if he died, he would only be helping Springtrap, rather than being a useless ragdoll when he went limp. If the night guard died, Springtrap would be able to stuff him into a suit and, with the help of the Marionette, bring him back to life. The Marionette would certainly help him. That had to be the reason why he was kept here!

Springtrap thought about talking to the night guard when he was trapped in his eternal prison. Now, what would that be like? Springtrap hoped he'd be able to understand the fellow; he hardly understood himself just by listening. No, the night guard would be able to understand him by gestures, if anything. Shaking off the doubts, Springtrap continued his pursuit. This was supposed to be a night of joy! Fears had no place, this night, for him, specifically. Springtrap continued to utter the sounds that he could, moving this way and that, crawling through vents. As usual, the vents were very difficult to utilize, but he was getting somewhere, and the night guard was having more and more difficulty keeping everything in check. Oftentimes, the guard had to reboot all systems, and Springtrap would sense that time gap. He began to count the seconds it took for each rebooting. Such knowledge could come in handy at some point.

The hallways spanned before him, and, finally, he found himself reaching the window. He stood before it, his grin fastened upon his face as he peered in at the human being, who looked at him in horror. "Your time… comes…" Springtrap laughed, moving toward another room when the night guard sounded the audio. Pain flashed up his spine, reaching his head, and he shuddered with it. His momentary pause was not detrimental, however; he knew he would win this night. He knew that he would be able to reach the night guard. There was a certainty to his movements. Even his limp didn't detract the confidence in his step. He peered around the door, at the night guard, and caught a glimpse of the monitor: two a.m. Plenty of time, and he was already getting extraordinarily close. The night guard yelped, quickly making the audio sound in the adjacent room, causing Springtrap to make his way into it.

His breathing quickened. He could sense that it was drawing closer. Closer, and closer, and closer. The time was becoming optimal. The night guard was going to be dead. He was going to die. Springtrap was going to kill him. Springtrap was going to stuff him into a suit just like he had for those children. The night guard was going to wake up just like those children did. This time, though, he wasn't going to be like the children. No, he was going to be Springtrap's friend. He wasn't going to be a spirit to imprison him in a new kind of hell. No. No. No. Perhaps all of this was just the product of his will to convince himself the story would not repeat itself against him. He knew how the tale had been meant to end, before. He knew that it was liable to repeat itself in its own ways. Still, somehow, he had an extreme urge to murder this fellow. An incredible urge to acquire a companion.

To play the game again.

Maybe that was all Springtrap thought it to be: a game. Or maybe he really was just as lonely as he felt he was. Maybe his loneliness had carried on from a life before the one he now possessed. Or maybe he was just as mentally-ill as everyone had once told him. That he deserved the electric chair. Eyes. All of those eyes. Focused on him, and nothing else. Just him. Purple shirt; reminded him of his uniform. Bright, pale light of dawn. Still, those eyes. Cameras and humans, they were all the same. Always keeping an eye on him, no matter what he did. It would never stop. Never. But there was incentive for him to still try to kill this night guard. There was still a reason.

Misery loves company.

A desperation to no longer suffer alone protected the conclusion that he would never stop being watched. He would never stop being studied, but the presence of a new fellow to keep him company was the thing he longed for. Even those filthy animatronics, stuffed with children to allow the notice of others, had learned what it was like to be watched at all times. Singing those same stupid songs in your head. Always having a presence of denial; you can't possibly be insane. Everyone is always lying, always deceiving you, every step of the way. Everyone constantly works to fool you for their own benefit. Laughter bubbled up in Springtrap's chest. The win was going to be delicious for a hungry soul.

Springtrap was at the exit. He leaned around the bend, the red lights flashing. Four in the morning. Still two hours, and he was already here. He laughed again and the night guard stared at him, his eyes growing dark with the dawn of realization that he would not be able to make audio sound before Springtrap seized him. Springtrap allowed himself to maintain complete silence, just letting the knowledge sink in and force a crushing sensation upon the heart of the fool. Comfort met Springtrap at seeing another being brought down the same way he had been. He remembered whenever the suit began constricting him. The same feeling had cascaded on his shoulders; that there was no way to stop his imminent destruction. The night guard looked tempted to turn, but Springtrap didn't let him, this time.

The spring-coiled suit moved forward at his command and his hands twitched rapidly in his excitement. He could taste the victory already as he screamed, grabbing hold of the night guard, who writhed helplessly against his grip. "Help… me…" he whispered, dragging the night guard after him. The night guard would not stop trying to escape his fingers, which were clenched tightly on the man's arm. Springtrap could see the empty Freddy suit ahead, and the night guard began to scream in terror. Springtrap dragged both of them back into the office, setting the suit down. "Help me," he repeated, holding the man, who had tears streaming down his face. A moment of hesitation arrived for Springtrap, but he shook his head. There was no place for it.

Springtrap destroyed every bit of pity for the man as he began to force him into the suit. This was what he had wanted all of these five nights, and he would make himself savor every gory moment if he had to. He kept speaking to the man, even though he knew he likely didn't understand. He despised his locked jaw, wishing that he would be able to move it to allow him room to make legitimate words. Blood caked his hands, dark in the lighting. The man struggled once he was inside the suit, and Springtrap watched, remembering whenever he was constricted vividly as the same happened for the man. The man trembled, falling to the ground, his body jerking as he tried to escape. And then… nothing. The man fell still within the suit, and Springtrap waited, holding his breath… hoping.

"Marionette… awake him," he whispered. "Awaken him, Marionette…" He stared at the suited night guard, praying for his soul to be trapped within the suit and his body. Just like Springtrap. Cold dread trickled into Springtrap's soul, and icy fingers of emotional suffering clenched around his chest, tightening it.

There was no movement from the suit.

Six a.m. arrived.

 _Also posted on my DA (XxWildLostSpirits): [FNAF] Blood of the Fools_


	6. Night Six

**Springtrap - Part VI**

 _Crash!_

The sound was extremely satisfying to Springtrap's ears. After a while of pounding and hacking and struggling, he'd finally managed to force some of the ceiling panels to cave in. There wasn't much left to do, now. He began to work to create something he could stand on with the dirty boxes lying about. He left the heads of the animatronics in them, despite how much he feared and despised them. They would be able to support his weight where the crate wouldn't have been able to. Pain struck through his entire body with every movement that he made, not only physically, but mentally.

There was a gaping hole in his heart from his new discovery. Now, he was done. He was done with anything and everything in this world. Surely, even Hell couldn't be so terrible. At least, in Hell, there might be someone to scream along with him. He limped to another box, seizing it in his trembling hands, and dragged it after him back to the others. Laboriously, he repeated this action, not giving himself pause. He shook more fervently the longer it went on, as though the spring-coiled suit knew what he was wanting to do. He wouldn't let it stop him. Not this time.

Still, it was hard to keep some of his movements under control. It was difficult to keep himself from ramming his hand into the box instead of grabbing it gently. It was almost impossible to keep his knees from randomly giving out under him. Springtrap didn't have anything to distract himself from the aches that spread throughout him. There was no lust for a kill, no eagerness to force another soul to join his side. If history did repeat itself, it would most certainly be years later, and he wasn't prepared to endure this any longer. Besides, even if he did stick around, the people would take him apart and find out the truth about him. Would they bury him alive, then? He shuddered at the thought.

Even if he wanted to release his soul, now, being pinned down under a tough mound of dirt didn't sound like the way he wanted to spend eternity. Springtrap hissed with agony as one of his knees crumpled under the weight of another step, falling to the ground and barely managing to catch himself with his hands before he hit his face. He stared at the ground and at his fingers, gasping like a fish out of water. His throat and lungs were too crushed and mangled to inhale, but that didn't mean that he didn't try. He had been so used to the motion when he had been human, when he had been alive (it felt like a past life, now), that it was inconceivable to quit trying. To stop breathing while he still moved was to give up whatever kind of humanity he had left, and, despite all of his other wishes, that was something he wasn't prepared for.

Springtrap felt strength tighten in his knee again, and he forced himself to stand. He looked up at the tangles of wires passing through the hole in the ceiling panels, using the sight of them to rejuvenate himself. He continued to drag more boxes. The struggle of lifting one rang through him all the way to his core, but he managed to coerce himself to do so. He had to, in order to be able to reach the top and do what he had decided was right. The pile was almost finished… It was so close.

He hesitated when the last one had been placed, his silver eyes travelling to the right. He turned his head slowly, locking his focus on the bloody, old suit lying stretched by the wall. He could still see some skin poking out, could still see the blood staining the floor from what had seemed to be an everlasting flow. He had never known bodies held that much blood, at least, not until he slaughtered those children and stuffed them in the animatronics. He shook his head vigorously, letting it jerk itself to oblivion in back when he was done with the motion. He had to clear those thoughts away. It wasn't important anymore. It was almost over. Everything was going to be finished, soon.

He turned his head toward the boxes and reached forward, grabbing one and beginning to clamber on top of the pile. Just as he neared the top, however, they bent under his weight and he fell unceremoniously to the ground. "Help!" he cried, and, before he knew it, he ended up staring at the ceiling, flat on his back, and for what may have been a few minutes, perhaps an hour, he didn't move. He stared blankly. Trivial things were trying to stop him. Foolish of them! He would not be stopped. He hadn't been stopped when he had murdered. He wouldn't –no, couldn't- allow himself to slow! He pulled his arms back and pushed himself up into a sitting position. After gathering his feet underneath him, he managed to regain his feet, a wobble almost causing him to tumble back down. He regained his balance and tried to climb again, failing twice more before finally reaching the top.

Springtrap struggled to keep his balance on the apex, gripping the edge of the box with iron fists. He stared down at the ground, terrified that the pile would collapse underneath him. He tried to push away his fear, but it remained prevalent, like it was melded with his very soul. He looked up above himself, leaning back, at the wires. They were so close… If he could just… He slowly began to stand up, releasing his grip on the edge of the box. His knees trembled with his worries as the pile shuddered under his weight, the items within the box he stood upon threatening to shift and topple him. He reached up and snatched the edge of the ceiling panel, using it to steady himself. For a precarious moment, the boxes threatened to give in, but, at last, his weight was secure.

"It's… over…" he told himself softly, what remained of his throat clenching up. He shot down the panic as it came. There was no way for him to choke anymore. There was no use in freaking out over something that was impossible! He chastised himself silently, keeping one hand gripping the panel and stretching the other to grab hold of the wires. He groped for a minute or two before he sensed his hand touch them. Snagging hold, he looked down at his feet. He braced himself for the pain that would follow this motion, knowing he could even end up ruining his shoulder doing this. He lifted himself up somewhat and kicked the boxes out from under himself, beginning to fall. His hand still held the wires, so he swung limply above the ground for what seemed like hardly the blink of an eye. Then, much to his pleasure (at least when it was over), they snapped, and he fell to the ground, his fingers slipping away from them.

He landed to the ground with a dull thud, the pain of it making his vision obscure. He strained to use his diaphragm so his lungs would swell with air, quite in vain. Sparks showered down around him like small drops of fire, and when his vision was clear enough to catch them, they reminded him of rain. Oh, how he missed rain. He missed the feeling of water running over him, drenching him entirely, until he was shivering with cold. However, after he got so cold, he would go back inside, into the dryness, and warm himself up if he could. Perhaps even with a cup of coffee. That he missed, too. When he had been able to move fluidly without worry of causing himself pain in every blink of his eye, he had also enjoyed drinking and eating until he was content. Even in prison, they had served him food and water. He also remembered how much he had hated the prison. Now, he would much rather return to it than be laying here, crumpled on the floor, stuffed and compressed in a spring-locked suit.

He longed for all of these things so much, but he now knew he would never be able to meet them again. Never would he be able to sleep in a comfortable, warm bed. Never again would he be able to feel rain showering upon himself or eat or drink like a human must do. Never again would he be able to move without pain striking through his limbs. Never again would he be able to control his motions in such elaborate ways. How could he have taken all of these things for granted? How could he have ignored how much good he had? He felt a rush of hate toward who he had been. If he had taken these things into account, perhaps he wouldn't be in the midst of this mess. He certainly wouldn't have killed those children. He wouldn't have had to meet them face-to-face once more as their spirits rose to teach him of all that he had done. Now, he understood. He knew why they had done this to him.

Only fear and remorse were left, now.

He had to get moving. He had to get back to what he had been doing. He floundered for a while, unable to get up, until he managed to push himself up. He was amazed that his shoulder had not snapped under the weight of himself, though it ached even when he didn't move it. Perhaps this was what he was meant to do. Springtrap looked up at the wires, which were still leaking sparks here and there. Bright flashes of light appeared from time to time, like he had created a small cloud of lightning within the room. His gaze traveled to the bloody suit laying against the wall, but new resolve flashed through him. Grimly, he turned his back on it, limping to the opposing side and grabbing a lighter he'd discovered on the corpse of the murdered. The sparks would need a bit of help. He carried the lighter to the boxes, which he then dragged underneath the sparks with his good arm. All of the equipment was flammable. All he needed to do was encourage it along the way.

Springtrap pressed his thumb against the switch of the lighter, bracing himself for frustration. This subtle movement wasn't going to be easy for his shaking fingers. He worked to activate the spark and the gas within the lighter, praying it not be faulty. Time was passing by as he worked. Six was ever-nearing. When it arrived, he wouldn't have the strength to stay standing after all of the toil he had put himself through in this sixth night. That meant every second, every minute, and every hour were of the essence. A bright flame flickered out from the lighter, and Springtrap made certain to keep it fueled, feeling a rush of wonder at the sight of it. Like a cat, he mused at it. He hadn't seen fire in a long time, either. Well, now, he was going to witness plenty of it! He shoved away his excitement. This wasn't the time for it.

Next, he approached the boxes with the lit lighter, and dropped the flame into them. He stepped away quickly on instinct as orange light began to flare, the time speeding away at him. He stared as flames began to jump out, ignited by sparks and the lighter itself. The faces of Bonnie, Chica, and Freddy stared at him like the ghosts were back, and he felt fear rush through every fiber of his being. It took all of his might not to turn tail and flee from the site. His attempts to breathe quickened, and if he was capable, he was sure his heart would be pounding in his ears at this point. He worked to push down the emotions that ravaged him. This was no time for petty feelings! Nothing would stop him! He forced himself to keep watching the fire that would soon be the death of him, as he was certain. He ran out of willpower and limped toward the back room, where he usually hid himself when morning arrived. Strength began to pour out of his body like milk spilling from a fallen cup. Six.

Springtrap came before the door of his small haven, feeling the heat of the flame on his back. The smoke began to pour around him, clouding his head, but he stared at the door that demanded for all approaching to keep out, trying all he could to reach out and grab it. Just before he did, the ceiling caved in, and flames fell all around him. He watched as they jumped up to somewhat block his sight of the door, red and orange and yellow lighting him and all the things surrounding. Ash flaked on the ground like snow, beginning to collect in heaps. This was the end. This was the end of it all! Should he not be rejoicing? Once more, he chastised himself. Once more, he faced the reality of his current situation.

Once more, he felt a bit of humanity.

He was surrounded. There was no place to go, no way to get out. At least, that was what he believed. Now, he began to feel hate toward the grin that stayed upon his face. How misplaced it was! When he had been striving toward the kill, it had been perfectly appropriate, but even then, he knew he rarely smiled in his life before this. He had always felt the strain of a smile, yet a frown felt unlabored. This was only because his smile felt completely unnatural. He knew frowns took more muscles than a smile to conjure, and yet he always scowled, rarely smiled, and always felt as though a smile took more. It never did. How many times had he been so misconceived? His mind wandered to his family. Had they ever known of what was to come, from the moment he had been born to the time he had murdered the children? Surely, they had not. He wouldn't have known, either, in their place. He would've thought that only happiness was headed his way upon the birth of a child, but it would only come out to pain and suffering.

Why did he think of this? Why was he considering these thoughts? It was pointless! He felt flames singe his spine and staggered away. Now, the reality was bearing itself upon his shoulders and upon his throat. He had to get out of here! Self-preservation surged itself into him, and he stumbled about blindly, trying to find a way out of the lights and the heat and the harm. Pain stabbed through him from all angles, and he heard a creaking above his head. He looked up just in time to see more of the ceiling cave in. He attempted to jump back, only to end up pinned down by the legs. He tried to move them, but to no avail. Panic strived its way forward as he realized he couldn't move his legs at all. Agony jumped up to join the other emotions as the flames began to engulf him further. Then… he felt a droplet hit his bare throat. He cast his silver eyes upward to cloudy, indigo sky far above his head, through the smoke, the flame, and the ceiling. The sky… he had almost forgotten what it looked like.

It was raining. At first, in a few sprinkles, then in a shower. The flames were still eating away at him, slowly. His legs were still incapable of movement, but now the showers were rushing over him. He imagined they cleansed his soul, but it was only a fantasy. Of course, rain was incapable of such things. His hopes were ripped away from him by his logical mind, but he began to feel a kind of peace come over him. Perhaps, now, he could finally sleep? He stared at the sky, trying to imprint in his head. His arms were sprawled at his sides, pieces of the suit he wore torn from the stress of the clutter and the flame. Slowly, but surely, he became more and more dormant, until, at last, he felt sleep take him over. It was a miraculous feeling, he realized, as he began to fall into it.

 _Sleep_. He had missed it, too.


End file.
